


Ribbons and Ties

by playwithdinos



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Throne Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:56:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4936804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playwithdinos/pseuds/playwithdinos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had secretly hoped that after the third time, at least, she would stop receiving invitations to anything other than a night of Wicked Grace, knocking elbows with her friends in Varric’s suite in the Hanged Man. Or, more accurately, this is a secret from everyone but Merrill, who is absolutely thrilled whenever Bodhain greets them home from an expedition to the Storm Coast, a message with an elaborate wax seal on the back and writing in an elegant hand on the front.<br/>--<br/>Hawke brings Merrill to a party, and her Dalish lover wanders off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ribbons and Ties

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gingervivi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gingervivi/gifts).



> Inspired by this lovely fanart by [Gingervora.](http://commander-gingervora.tumblr.com/)

It’s not a particularly lively party, Hawke thinks, and even her blatant attempts to liven it up a little by flaunting her Dalish lover before Kirkwall’s elite have gone largely ignored. Alright, _maybe_ this is the fourth fine party in a row she’s done this, and _maybe_ Merrill has managed to quell most of the horror that comes with _a Dalish savage in the drawing room_ by being... well, Merrill.

She had secretly hoped that after the third time, at least, she would stop receiving invitations to anything other than a night of Wicked Grace, knocking elbows with her friends in Varric’s suite in the Hanged Man. Or, more accurately, this is a secret from everyone but Merrill, who is absolutely thrilled whenever Bodhain greets them home from an expedition to the Storm Coast, a message with an elaborate wax seal on the back and writing in an elegant hand on the front.

Never mind that Merrill tends to track spider guts all over the house as she immediately begins to ponder what they will wear—a sly smile on her lips as she looks _directly_ at Hawke’s breasts, waist, legs,  her gaze gleaming where it roams over Hawke’s bloodstained armour.

Hawke often wonders if they should skip the fancy parties and just get right to the part where they strip one another of their elaborate dresses, with all the ribbons and ties to keep Merrill’s deft and desperate hands _deliciously busy_.

It’s _that_ thought in particular that jars Hawke, that makes her blink and shake her head, snapping her focus out of her wandering mind and to the conversation an aged Templar is attempting to have with her. Or rather, _at_ her, because he hasn’t noticed that Hawke’s thoughts have been lingering all along the _vallaslin_ that marks her lover’s skin.

Hawke absently swirls a glass of wine between her fingers—and she _knows_ she’s not supposed to do that, knows it makes her look uncultured because Fenris told her once that one only swirls wine right before smelling or tasting it but she doesn’t really care—while she looks around the room, realising that Merrill is not at her side. A quick glance is long enough to tell her that Merrill has wandered off—and _normally_ , Hawke wouldn’t be worried. Merrill wanders off at these parties all the time; sometimes because the food is not to her liking, so she’s off to help herself to something a bit more _homey_ or _filling_ from the kitchens, sometimes because she sees a garden through a window and _it looks so lovely_.

But this _particular_ party is in the Viscount’s Keep, simultaneously marking the one year anniversary of Dumar’s death and the rise of Hawke from troublesome Fereldan to exalted Champion of Kirkwall.

Hawke excuses herself from whatever conversation she’s supposed to be having, not even feigning a smile or a true apology, and she slips through the crowd. Not unseen, mind; the Champion rarely goes anywhere these days unnoticed. But she is not stopped as she wanders, looking for a sign of Merrill.

It’s Aveline who directs her with an exasperated nod of her head towards the throne room. Long abandoned, the thought of Merrill wandering in there is an oddity that makes Hawke pause, her hand resting on a slightly ajar door.

But she hears Merrill humming to herself, something rhythmic and Dalish, and Hawke finds herself smiling as she pushes the door open and slips into the room.

Merrill is swaying, hovering on the tips of her toes as she peers up at the fine carving on a column. She doesn’t linger long, moving with a breathy little sigh to the next. Her dress flows with her, soft and light, and Hawke allows herself a moment of delight in the way it exposes a little of her leg, wrapped in soft leathers in the Dalish way. In the curve of her neck as her gaze strains _up_ , ever up, to the ceiling and the carvings there, her eyes squinting as she tries to make out details Hawke’s human eyes will never see.

Merrill’s hand moves up to keep something on her head, and that’s when Hawke sees the Viscount’s crown sitting atop her hair.

“Do we have a new Viscount at last?” Hawke teases, breaking Merrill from her reverie.

Her lover blinks at her, blushing all the way to the tips of her ears.

“Hawke,” she says, a little too loud, a little too abrupt, and Hawke regrets speaking.

But Hawke has spent her years blundering right through greater regrets than this, through Carver and Bethany and Leandra, and so she lowers herself into her most graceful bow of the night—low, sweeping, with an exaggerated arm gesture that used to make her mother laugh in spite of herself.

“The Champion requests an audience with this new Viscount,” Hawke says, her gaze fixed on Merrill’s wide, _brilliant_ eyes.

Merrill giggles—and she’s had a little too much to drink, but the way she brings her hands to her mouth with delight at Hawke’s prostrating makes the Champion’s heart grow warm.

“The Viscount accepts,” Merrill says, trying to sound very serious. And failing, in a way only Merrill can. “She finds she has much to speak to the Champion about.”

Hawke rises. She makes her way over to Merrill—a lazy gait, slow but focused, her hips swaying and her steps deliberate. Merrill says nothing as Hawke approaches, her eyes growing quite wide, and her eyes growing dark as they dart over every movement Hawke makes, every tug and pull of Hawke’s dress about her form.

“I didn’t have much of _talking_ in mind,” Hawke says, and when Merrill laughs this time it is lower, breathier, and her pupils are impossibly wide as her gaze trails down from Hawke’s eyes to her neck, to the dip of her collar under the fabric of the dress.

Through kisses and whispers and gentle touches, Hawke steers her Dalish lover towards the throne at her back. Merrill curses and bites, digs her nails into Hawke’s arms and tries to drag her back against the closest column, down to the floor, against _anything at all_ , seeing no need for patience when they are alone _now_ , sharing breath and love between them. Hawke tuts and whispers sweet nothings into Merrill’s ear as she draws her lover to sit, to put her hands on its arms and to hold them.

She has a precious moment to lean back, to revel in the sight of Merrill looking up at her, a human’s crown askew on her head, her hair slightly mussed and her lips parted, quivering.

Merrill breathes, _hard_ , and she tries to leap up to meet Hawke’s lips again. Hawke hums laughter into her lover’s lips, and she returns her furious kisses with patience, a laziness that is meticulous in its execution. Merrill whimpers, but when Hawke whispers she does as she is told, her hands clinging to the arms of the throne.

She stays put as Hawke slips lower, finds the ends of Merrill’s dress and draws it up around her hips. But she does not stay there long, a kiss to the inside of a thigh the end of Merrill’s resolve—Hawke feels nails digging into her scalp as Merrill’s hips roll, desperately, her whimpers drawing into a keening that is beginning to echo in the empty room.

Oh, her Dalish lover holds nothing back—not her magic, her history, her words or her love, and it takes so little for Hawke to get her screaming, begging, pleading, her head thrown back and her dress hiked up around her hips.

Hawke remembers the open door behind them as Merrill’s voice grows raw, and wonders with a wicked grin if _this_ is what will finally draw the string of invitations to a close.


End file.
